An oil lamp hisses over warm bowls set for three, but the keepers are nowhere to be found. By morning, through the winter gale, the lamp still burns. A skin has formed on the stew, the bread has gone cold. Boots drip brine on stone floors, coats hang undisturbed. The doors are latched from the inside. A logbook entry notes the passing of the storm… and then, a final, calm report. Outside, a sin...
